


strawberries & cigarettes

by peterrrparkour



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Precious Peter Parker, Teen Peter Parker, m/m - Freeform, peter parker x male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterrrparkour/pseuds/peterrrparkour
Summary: ~where i'll post all my peter parker x male reader fics :)~check out my other collection of peter parker and tom holland imagines!





	1. strawberries & cigarettes

_ Remember when we first met? You said ‘light my cigarette.’ _

 

Peter was definitely in the closet. 

 

You could just tell from the… everything. Maybe not gay, because his jaw still dropped as pretty girls strutted past him in the halls, so probably bi. It was the way his legs were always shaking under his desk, either from nerves, fear, paranoia, or all of the above. He’d lean back in his chair and awkwardly cross his legs in a weird folded position during the classes you had with him, tapping his pencil against the rings of his notebook. Not that you cared enough to notice those things. You just had this sense… or maybe you just wanted it to be true.

 

Straight guys don’t sneak side glances at other guys when they think they’re not looking. Peter Parker was a lot of things, but sly wasn’t one of them. You felt kind of embarrassed for him, so you’d pretend to focus really hard on the board until he looked away. You were more careful, only looking when he was for sure consumed in writing complicated formulas in his notebook. His brown curls hung over his forehead, while he shielded his paper from the side with his elbows. Everyone around you was transparent and easy to label, but when it came to Peter, you were speechless. 

 

***

 

Peter tugged at the strings of his hoodie, pulling one as far down as it could go and then switching to the other. He had an A in Calculus and didn’t feel like going to the last period, so he walked alongside the fence at the front of Midtown Tech. His sneakers skidded to a stop against the pavement when his brown eyes flicked upward and locked on the outline of your body leaning against the opposite side of the fence. He forced his legs to keep walking, and he picked up speed the closer he got to you, always feeling awkward in situations like this. Especially with people he fantasized about. 

 

But you never met his glances, you never showed any interest. Peter thought he had you figured out, but you never let anybody close enough to drop any hints that would give it away. That's what Peter repeated over and over in his head as he tried to pass by you without looking up, that you were probably not into guys and he should let go of the images in his head of the two of you being anything more than just strangers. 

 

He was only a few more steps away, a few more steps and he’d be past you and could breathe normally again. Peter’s hands shook uncontrollably with anxiety, his heart thumping against his ribs so fast it almost hurt to be near you. Just as you pushed off the fence with the back of your heel, you rotated to the sound of approaching footsteps. Peter froze still at your eyes finally meeting with his for once--in a moment it was like you told him everything he needed to know without even moving your lips. 

 

“Sup,” you mumbled, nodding your chin up at him in acknowledgment. The terror mixed with bliss in his stare confirmed your suspicions, but you still wanted to play it cool. Peter tried to squeeze his hands into fists so they’d stop shaking so violently, but that only ended up causing him to drop his phone to the sidewalk as you awaited the sound of a cracking glass screen. Peter dove to catch it almost too fast, his reflexes sharp and precise to make up for his clumsiness. 

 

“Hey, man,” Peter finally responded a few dragged out seconds later. He started to back away and pass you up until you raised your hand higher, your sleeve falling down your forearm to reveal a cigarette in between two fingers. 

 

“Got a lighter?” you asked, eyes tracing a path back up from his hand shoved in the front pocket of his faded-blue jeans to the blank expression on his face. Peter’s lips parted but no words came out. You leaned back, fingers curling around one of the bars of the fence that separated the two of you. 

 

“Sorry to bother ya’ then,” you cut off the lacking conversation and started to step away. Peter’s hand shot out from his pocket to loosely brush over your fingers still holding onto the fence. 

 

“Wait! I do-- I think, in my backpack…”

 

You expected the guy to slide the backpack off his shoulders and unzip it, but instead, Peter’s head swiveled in a quick circle as he took multiple steps back. He looked up at the top of the fence and you followed his vision, not believing he really thought he was going to try and jump it. Your hands rose on instinct as he took a running start, and your eyes squeezed shut in a cringe. A couple of silent seconds passed and you opened them again, to see Peter standing next to you, wiping the edge of his sleeve across his hairline. He opened up his clenched fist to reveal a small black lighter in the palm of his hand, and you reluctantly picked it up, like there must be some trick to him. 

 

_ I jumped the fence and I ran. _

 

Peter could really pull off the shy, quiet nerd thing he had going for him. But to you, that was only the top layer to him, and you wanted to peel them back and discover what he was hiding from the world. His shoulders loosened from their tensed-up state as you took the lighter and toyed with it between your fingers. 

 

“Parker, you really smoke too?” you uttered in disbelief. His cheeks flushed pink as his head dropped to the ground and shook back and forth. Peter kicked at the cracks in between the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe before he answered. 

 

“Nah, I just… like flicking it on and off sometimes. Nervous habit.”

 

He seemed to have a lot of those. It wasn’t even a bad thing to you, if anything it drew you in more. The air between you felt thick enough to make your body feel heavier, and it seemed to be having the same effect on Peter as he blew out a long breath. 

 

“You, uh, need a ride home?” you asked, trying not to cringe at the way it came out of your mouth. Was it too much? Or was it a normal thing to ask a guy you barely spoke more than two words too?

His head jerked up and the corners of his lips tugged up into a grin, but half a second later he remembered to act like it wasn’t a big deal and just shrugged in response. 

 

“I usually just swi--, I mean, take the bus, but if you could, sure,” Peter stuttered, tripping over his words so it took him longer than usual to answer. You stood looking at each for a second or two, until you realized he was waiting for you to walk towards your car. 

 

“It’s, uh, a block down in the parking garage on the left,” you directed. As you raised a finger to point up towards the garage, your hand skimmed across the side of his thigh, and you sucked in a breath caught at the back of your throat. You wished there was something, some code word, that would say all you needed to say to Peter so that you wouldn’t be constantly searching for the right words. Constantly asking yourself if it would cross a line, or if it wouldn’t say enough. 

 

You could sense Peter’s eyes on you, except they were focused on the lighter still clasped in your one hand, with the cigarette in the other. He raised an eyebrow with expectations, and you remembered that the whole reason you kept him talking was asking for a lighter. The cigarette and lighter felt foreign in between your fingers, but it was just sitting atop the pavement at your feet when Peter was walking by, and it was the first excuse that came to mind. 

 

It took a couple tries to rub your thumb across it to get a bit of fire, and you searched through any and all memories of how people smoked in the movies or on the streets of New York. After you lit it, Peter curiously stared back at you as you walked next to each other, which only made you more self-conscious about the act. You lifted it up to your mouth and inhaled deeply, feeling the sensation you had no experience with, and thought for a second that maybe, just maybe, you could pull it off to him. The feeling quickly vanished as you dropped the cigarette from your fingertips and burst into a series of coughs. Peter’s hands flew to your back, rubbing circles with the palms of his hands that sent electrifying tingles up and down your spine.

 

“So--sorry, jus’ was a… messed up one,” you coughed in between words, hoping it would make sense, but Peter didn’t ask any questions. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a plastic bag, and in a flash of red, held out a strawberry a few inches away from your lips. You raised both eyebrows in wonder but nevertheless plucked the strawberry from his hand. 

 

“I don’t know, doesn’t really make sense but it’s kind of sweet, so I thought it might help,” Peter rushed to explain as your teeth sunk into the fruit and eyes popped open a little bigger. It felt smooth on your tongue and helped more than you thought it would, and you smiled back at Peter, your shoulders knocking against each other in an expression of gratitude. If you had to pick a fruit to represent Peter, strawberries were perfect: sweet and sugary, always balancing out the bitter tastes left lingering in your mouth. And for just a small moment, they commanded your attention, a brief distraction from the bustling fast pace of the world spinning around you. 

 

“Thanks, Parker.”

 

His last name rolling off your tongue made his cheeks flush with pink again, almost the same color of the fruit he held in his hand. Peter offered you another strawberry just as you stepped into the garage and racked through your memory to remember where you exactly parked. Nothing felt normal around Peter, you couldn’t focus on anything or anyone else. The only lights in the dark garage flickered yellow above your heads, and your palms grew sweaty so you attempted to casually wipe them off against your black jeans. You swore that out of the corner of your vision, Peter was hiding a smirk behind his sleeve covering up his mouth from you, which only made you blush deeper. 

 

When you paused at your car, Peter watched from a foot away as you rifled through your pockets, as each one turned out empty, you pressed your forehead to the glass window. 

 

“Fuck!” you cursed, fist pounding against the glass at the car keys sitting comfortably on the passenger seat. In a futile attempt, you pulled against the door handle, but it was locked just like it always was. 

 

_ But we couldn’t go very far, cause you locked your keys in your car. _

 

“Might wanna call someone,” Peter cut in, immediately cursing himself for stating the obvious. You turned to face him, lungs freezing mid-breath when you realized he was standing much closer to you than before. Expecting him to take a step back, you nodded at his suggestion, but Peter shuffled a little closer, eyes hidden underneath his chocolate curls as he dropped his chin a few inches. You did the same, too afraid to look back up, but you shuffled a little closer to him.  

 

Peter’s fingers trembled as they traced over the bones in your jaw, first light and sweet, until his hands tightened and he dragged your lips closer to meet his. You let your hands wander to his shoulderblades, pulling his stronger than you expected body tight up against your own. His lips tasted faintly of sugar, matching the bitterness of the cigarette smoke still clinging onto your breath. He didn’t break away like you thought he would, only spun you around so your back smacked against the side of your locked car. Your hands slipped up to the back of Peter’s neck, holding him so close neither of you could catch a proper breath, but the taste and the kiss were addictive. Not just addictive, but liberating. Peter’s touch, his hands, his lips all on you, made up for the moments you had to pretend it wasn’t what you wanted from him. 

 

And that’s how you knew you needed him, that it wasn’t just an unthinkable thought or unattainable fantasy. It was real, just as real as anyone else’s version of love, if not better, fueled with more pent-up passion. Peter’s kiss  _ set you free.  _

 

His teeth grazed over your bottom lip as he finally pulled his lips off of yours, but his hands remained on your back. Peter was too afraid if he backed up any more, that you would never bring him back in, that it would just be a one-time thing. The air still felt thick, but not out of the awkwardness from before, thick because you had found your something, your “code word,” without having to say anything. Strawberries & cigarettes. 

 

_ So you sat and stared at my lips, and I could already feel your kiss.  _


	2. WILD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 part series titled: "blue neighbourhood"

**_Part 1: WILD_ **

 

_ Still too long to the weekend, too long till I drown in your hands… _

 

You’ve never wanted to leave a place as much as this one, yet stay for just another minute. Minutes that can’t hurt unless they develop into hours, just like this. Your head on Peter’s shoulder, collapsed in exhaustion from the life being sucked out of you every minute you had to spend elsewhere. These minutes you know can’t last very long, still the only place you want to be in, surrounded by a place you can’t wait to escape from.  

 

Nothing is ever that easy, because if it were easy to just up and leave places that eat away at you every day you don’t run from them, there would be no rough neighbourhoods. 

 

The world would be a paradise. 

 

There’s not a single moment if you had to you would pick, a single moment where it just clicked between you and Peter. You’ve never even had a real conversation about it; it’s not like you sat each other down and said the words “I’m gay” or “Will you be my boyfriend?” Because with you two, your feelings never spilled out into words like ink spreading across blank pages. Everything you revealed was through actions, simple touches that slowly became less simple and more deliberate. 

 

More planned, something you thought twice about but did it anyway once you realized what you wanted from each other. Someone to hold the same way Peter’s holding you at this moment, with your head on his shoulder and his balanced on top of yours, hands smoothly running up and down your back to even out the muffled cries fleeing your lips. This feeling’s all you have ever known about love; Peter Parker’s the only person who’s ever taken your breath away and given it back all within the span of a single heartbeat. 

 

There are still moments that sometimes flash you back to the bittersweet beginning of whatever it is that you have with him. He’ll look at you a certain way or murmur a phrase he used to say a lot more often, and a string of memories float up to the surface, to the present. 

~2 years ago~

 

_ We’re alike, you and I, two blue hearts locked in our wrong minds.  _

 

You shift on the bottom bunk of Peter’s beds, heart thumping inside your chest at the soft snores coming from the mattress above your head. How could you sleep like nothing had changed when Peter had locked pinkies with you at the movies just a few hours earlier? It seems stupid of you to even care about it, always overthinking everything. Then keeping a straight face for the rest of the world, the only acceptable real emotion you could feel in the public’s eye is anger. 

 

You try and tell yourself that it is okay to care; growing up in New York you’ve seen pride marches just outside of your window, rainbow flags stuck to coffee shop doors, and walked behind girls holding hands and men kissing on street corners. But, alongside with that, you’ve cringed at the long rants the news or the parades streaming in color provoked out of your father. Nodding as if you agreed, always making sure you never wore or said or even moved in the “wrong” way; sexuality may be a thing you were supposed to feel proud of in your city, but not in your home. 

 

Peter restlessly turns over for the third time in about a minute, which only makes your skin itch even more as you struggle to stay frozen and not make any movements. How could this be so confusing yet make so much sense at the same time? It’s pretty simple: you have a crush on Peter, Peter might have a crush on you.  _ Stop overthinking _ , you chant in your head which only lowers the intended calming effect.

 

“Hey, Y/N, you up?” Peter’s groggy voice seeps into your ears and you never knew heaven could be discovered in a four-word sentence. Opening your mouth, you expect the words to flow easily but they stick to the roof of your mouth and hang in the back of your mind. Peter sighs and murmurs something under his breath, and you try again. 

 

“Y-yeah-- can’t sleep.”

 

Almost instantly, the bunk above you creaks and Peter jumps off the edge, landing lightly on his toes as you roll over to lock eyes with him. He self-consciously reaches up to push back a stray brown curl that never seems to stay in place, when you lunge to do it for him. Without thinking, you twirl it around your finger before tucking it lightly behind his right ear, then pull yourself together. 

 

“Me neither…” Peter whispers, eyes tearing from yours to observe the door left open just a crack to his room in Aunt May’s apartment. You had this vibe from her that she could tell there was something different between you and Peter, and the inch of light that crept into his bedroom seemed to highlight that fact. 

 

There’s nothing left to say, and you desperately try to ease the awkwardness and fill the space with an explanation to the shift in your behavior towards each other without telling the whole truth. You keep your eyes trained on your hands gripping the dark blue comforter as you sit half-up in Peter’s bed. Peter rises to his feet and your heart falls in your chest, thinking he’s going to climb back up to the top bunk. You mask the sigh that leaves your lips with a cough, and roll back over, pulling the sheets over the top of your head. 

 

What you don’t expect to hear is the light clicking of the bedroom door, and Peter’s footsteps padding back towards you. He quickly pulls at the corner of the comforter and slips underneath by your side, the softness of his baggy grey sweatpants rubs against your calves and you’ve never felt more at home. You start to turn to face him, when he slides closer, draping his arm over your waist, fingers reaching to find yours. Lowering your hand from the side of the pillow, Peter intertwines his fingers with yours, while his shaky breathing feels hot against the back of your neck. 

 

There didn’t need to be some big reveal; you never needed to say the words to each other. 

 

This was how you knew. 

 

_ Can you hold me? _

 

Peter’s hands stop before he pulls away from your grasp, like an automatic timer in his mind beeped and that’s all the minutes you get with each other. It’s over now, now you’re back to being just friends and it’s time to sulk back home and fake it until the next weekend with him. His fingertips wipe away the faint trickles of tears underneath the dark circles surrounding your eyes. Hands lingering on your neck, he tilts your chin up to look into his eyes, a shade of brown that’s just right and feels like safety if it could be expressed in a color. 

 

_ Can you make me leave my demons and my broken pieces behind? _

 

Your hands push off the dark blue comforter, still reminiscent of memories from that sleepover, with many more piled on top since that night. Peter’s bedroom is your bubble, a safe space protected by a thin, see-through membrane, but it’s all you have and better than nothing. Something could easily prod into the bubble and the space could lose all its safety, but for now, it works. 

 

Right as your feet hit the floor and you pull your arms through the sleeves of your long, black jacket, Peter scurries up and runs to his desk. In a rush, he digs through the drawers, breathing out in relief as his hand wraps around a folded up piece of paper. Nervously, he approaches you, thumb swiping across his bottom lip as he finds the right words. 

 

“Uh, I wrote this in class, but then I ripped it up and started over. A few times. I don’t know, I wanted to just--tell you stuff, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it in person, so… Here’s me being scared but also romantic if you think about it--”

 

You walk up to him and slowly remove his clenched fist from the note, and he watches as you carefully tuck it into your jacket pocket and pat the outside of it. 

 

“It’s okay, Peter-- it’s more than that. I love it already, and I haven’t even read it yet, but it’s from you so I know,” you bite back a smile, normally cringing at the sappy words that belong in some early-2000’s rom-com, but with Peter, it felt excusable. You could be romantic, you could be sad, frustrated, happy, flirty-- _ anything _ with him. 

 

“Good--okay, I’ll, uh, see you at school,” Peter responds, looking over his shoulder to make sure the door’s shut before leaning in to press his lips against yours. Your eyelids sink down heavily, trying not to drown and melt into him or you’ll never be able to leave. Pulling away, you smirk at him and pat the letter one more time, sending a blush to his cheeks as he raises a hand in goodbye. 

 

Walking home, the elated feeling soon replaces itself with a feeling of dread. Whenever your emotions shoot up high, they always have to fall back down, which is the only bad part about secret “dates” with Peter: they have to end. Your footsteps slow to almost a halt at your front door to your dad’s apartment: an empty case of glass beer bottles are shoved off to the side, probably so that he didn’t have to see the evidence. Your hand shakes around the doorknob--you take it back. This is the worst part of coming home, when you don’t know what's waiting for you behind the door. He could be passed out on the couch or waiting to take out his anger with his fists. Nevertheless, you have to go in eventually, so you get it over with. 

 

The stench of alcohol hits you like a truck, so thick you can practically taste it on the tip of your tongue intermingled with the air. His back is turned towards you, bent over the crappy kitchen countertop. He leans back to take another swig from the bottle, then turns to face you, the softness that used to fill his eyes when you were a little kid is replaced with the anger that the liquid swirling around in his stomach induces. He staggers closer to you, glass shattering across the tiles as the bottle slips from his loose grip, and his hands tighten around your collar and your back hits the wall. 

 

“Wh--what’d I say ‘bout just leavin’ like that-- without tellin’ me where ya goin’?” he slurs, eyes scanning you up and down for anything he can use against you, any reason at all will do to take out his frustrations on you instead of himself. 

 

“Dad-- I told you before I left, I was at Peter’s…”

 

His eyes fire up at the mention of Peter’s name. At this point, your whole body shakes at the look in his eyes, and you’re practically certain he knows about you. He’s found out somehow, and it’s all over. 

 

“Don’ talk to me like that! Prove it, ‘ts in your pockets, then?” he leans in closer, breath stinging against your skin. He doesn’t know-- yet, and he won’t if you can play your cards right. 

 

You search through your pockets for something to pull out and show him your phone and a few silvery gum wrappers. His eyes scrunch up in frustration and his grip loosens. You breathe a sigh of relief as he starts to step back and you slip your phone back in your pocket. It feels lighter, and your legs freeze up as Peter’s note falls out and lands on the floor. Your father’s eyes ignite as he almost falls over snatching up the paper and you’ve never felt more terrified in all the moments with your father like this combined. 

 

“No! Dad-- that’s nothing! Just some stupid joke--” you scream, but your actions only further his suspicion, and he tears it open, eyes wildly darting back and forth, reading the words on the page. It kills you that you have no idea what he’s reading, that he gets to know before you do. Almost a minute passes, his shaggy hair falls in front of his face so you can’t read his expression until he raises his chin to look up at you. His hands clench around the corners of the paper, and he tears it down the middle into two pieces-- the ripping sound echoes throughout the four walls that trap you in. 

 

“You…   _ you and Peter!” _

  
_ ~Leave this blue neighbourhood, never knew loving could hurt this good, oh… and it drives me wild.~ _ _ _


	3. FOOLS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 part series entitled: "blue neighbourhood"

**_Part 2: FOOLS_ **

 

_ I am tired of this place; I hope people change. I need time to replace what I gave away.  _

 

Peter pretends to focus intently on the textbooks lining the top shelf of his locker, when he’s really honing in on his senses, eyes squeezing shut, hoping to pick up the familiar sound of your voice drifting through the halls. You haven’t answered any of his text messages, haven’t showed up to class in days; he wasn’t even sure if this morning would be any different, but he had a lingering feeling just a couple seconds more and you’d be bursting through the double doors. 

 

Peter’s lips ever so slightly turn upwards when he catches the faint hum of a song playing softly through earbuds. It had to be you, nobody else would be listening to the song you deemed as “yours” after many nights spent listening to it through shared earbuds on his bedroom floor. 

 

_ “I’ve been thinkin’ bout you, do you think about me still? _ ” The lyrics tug on the strings of Peter’s heart--strings that you hold the reins on, but he likes it that way. There’s nobody else he trusts more with full control of his heart than you.

 

Peter clicks his locker shut slowly, heels rotating against the tiles as he turns to face you right before you’re about to pass him up. Your hood’s pulled up and head hangs down, two white earbuds dangling out underneath--practically invisible, or that’s just what you want to be today.  Trying to catch your attention, Peter lunges for your elbow, catching it just in time to pull you in with probably more momentum than he intended, but he’s too excited to even be this close to you again. 

 

His eyebrows wrinkle together, laced with worry and tinges of fear as you keep your eyes fixed on the ground and refuse to look up. Because you know what’s waiting for you if you do-- those irresitible brown eyes that can make you melt within seconds. Peter’s fingers slip up to carefully remove an earbud from your right ear, delicately, because he feels your emotions chasing up high and crashing back down like a rollercoaster . 

 

“Hey… tell me what you need, okay?” Peter murmurs gently, leaning in closer. Normally you’d appreciate this proximity, but all you could do was hear the echoes of glass whiskey bottles shattering into pieces against your kitchen floor. This---this is what you need. But just because you need something doesn’t mean you can have it. 

 

“I need…” you pause, sucking in your bottom lip so the pressure holds the tears back.

 

“What? What is it?” Peter’s lips tremble, teeth chatter, but he’s not cold. He’s the opposite; he feels an unbearable heat flush to his forehead, too hot it’s uncomfortably uncontrollable. 

 

“I need you to stop talking to me. Stop texting, calling, don’t even look at me. I don’t want you like this, and I never did.” 

 

Peter’s hands drop off of you, like it physically hurts to touch you after those words. He almost starts to laugh, because it has to be a joke. A cruel joke, unlike you completely, but a joke nonetheless. He knows you, maybe even better than you know yourself, and you’d never, ever, say anything along those lines. Peter’s hand raises again to reach back up and hold onto the side of your neck, not caring at all who’s watching anymore. 

 

“You can’t really--” 

 

You spin around, immediately blocking out his voice with the lyrics that once made you cry unreasonably happy tears, but now they sting like pouring salt on a fresh cut. ~ _ Do you think about me still? _ ~ yes, never stopped, not even for half a second ~ _ Do ya? Do ya? _ ~ The distance lengthens between you and Peter, soon you’re far enough to let it all out, tears you held in spill over your cheeks like champagne foam flowing down the side of the bottle. But this isn’t a celebration, it’s a funeral. Whatever you had with Peter is dead and six-feet-under. 

 

“--mean that…” Peter finishes, talking to himself in a bustling hallway. Surrounded by people, but he’s never felt more alone. 

 

_ But everything is shattering, and it’s my mistake  _

 

~~~

 

Peter hoped that in a few days, you’d be back, knocking on his front door with an explanation so clear it’d make up for the hurt. Days faded into weeks, dull and grey. No--more like blue. He could only see in a single, depressing shade like a Picasso painting. It got the darkest whenever you passed in the halls without a word, but what hurt even more was when you smiled vibrantly. Because when you did, it only made it more clear, that you meant it when you said you never wanted him in that way. The distance “making the heart grow fonder” was for people much stronger than Peter. It made him feel weaker, like underneath his ribs, his heart shriveled more each day you drifted further apart. 

 

He’d even confessed to Aunt May the truth of his sexuality when she couldn't take it anymore. The long nights he spent sneaking out to run across rooftops and climb up brick walls, anything he could do to feel adrenaline. The rush felt artificial, but Peter never stopped until his limbs ached, so by the time he slipped back in through his bedroom window, he’d fall immediately to sleep. May cradled Peter’s head against her, hands running through his damp curls a time he didn’t come back until the morning. She stayed home from work to be with him all day, parked in front of the tv for hours as she introduced him to tubs of ice cream and other breakup essentials. She was the only person holding Peter together, only person stopping him from falling completely apart. 

 

The quiet is what really got to Peter. He’d rather have all his bones snapped into pieces, because anything hurts less than the quiet. He’d rather you scream at him for whatever he did wrong, for whatever mistake he made to make you hate him. 

 

Peter’s fingers shake around the pencil in his hand until it snaps in his palm, the lead crackling to pieces against his homework that requires concentration he just doesn’t have anymore. His eyes widen with the thoughts racing in his mind, trying to go over every little thing he did to figure out where he went wrong. 

 

The letter. 

 

Peter curses under his breath, hands clenching into fists then running through his curls, tugging on the ends of his strands. Peter had poured every thought and dream into that letter, things he wasn’t even sure he understood or meant. Running away with you, just a dream, but he felt close enough to tell you and hoped you reciprocated those feelings. Obviously, you didn’t. 

 

But, you did. Peter felt every emotion rolling off of you when you were together as if they were his own, sometimes he couldn’t even tell them apart, because you had felt the same. He couldn’t do this anymore--staying away was impossible, at least not without a better explanation. You hadn’t even given him an explanation, just a command with no logic behind it. 

 

Peter trips over his feet, flinging his bedroom door open as he runs out the apartment. 

 

“Where are you--” Aunt May calls out as Peter shuts the front door. He pushes it open to call back. 

 

“Done doing nothing, gonna get him back!”

 

Peter doesn’t wait for a response and charges down the flights of steps. He has no idea where he’s going but all he knows is he has to find you. Maybe needing someone doesn’t mean you can have them, but walking away without even trying is something Peter can’t do. 

 

Out of breath, Peter slows as he’s a block away from your neighbourhood, the adrenaline starts to turn into questions and decisions he doesn’t know how to make. Should he show up to your door? What if your dad answers? But he doesn’t know, so it wouldn’t do any harm… 

 

His questions are soon answered. Peter’s eyes scrunch together at two figures approaching him, walking close to each other. He’s driven by instincts in the moment, not really sure what to do, just doing whatever feels somewhat right. And you feel right. Peter can hear his heartbeats loud and clear drumming in his ears as he gets closer, and he right away wishes he never came looking for you. It would have been better to be in the dark, seeing blue than seeing the scene in front of him. 

 

Your breath halts as Peter stops in his tracks, dumbfounded and horrified expression blatantly obvious on his face. You force a smile at the girl whose fingers are intertwined with yours, swinging at your side back and forth. Three more steps, two, one… then you’ll pass him, pushing him back in the past, where he has to stay to be safe. When he’s gone from your field of vision, you exhale and focus on the cracks in the sidewalk underneath your feet. She keeps talking and you keep smiling and nodding, but the only thing you can hear are your dad's words that resonated with you after reading that letter: “if he comes back here again, i’ll kill both of ya’!”

 

You weren’t about to test that statement, and if you had told Peter the truth, he’d refuse to let go and try to find a way around the situation. He had that airy quality to him, his head always up in the clouds, sticking firmly to the belief that everything can be fixed. But you knew that there was only one way, and that was this. So you fake another smile and squeeze your hand tighter around hers, maybe if you close your eyes you’ll see Peter instead…

 

Peter can’t move his head, his neck muscles strain from keeping his eyes lowered to the sidewalk for seconds that turn into minutes. He can’t look up because then he’ll see you with her, a sight he wishes he could erase from his memory but it plays on a loop over and over in his thoughts. First, you stabbed him in the back, and now you twisted the knife deeper into him. 

 

An uncontrollable anger builds up in his chest so he’s practically spitting fire and blowing steam with each breath. The realization that you really don’t care hits him, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth at the cruelty of the situation. If it could make just even a little bit of sense, then maybe Peter could understand and maybe Peter could let you go. But the only thing Peter understands now is that he shouldn’t have ever trusted you, shouldn’t have ever handed you the strings to his heart. He shouldn’t have ever fallen for you. 

  
_ Only fools fall…  _ _ _


	4. TALK ME DOWN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last part of "blue neighbourhood"

**_Part 3: TALK ME DOWN_ **

 

_ I’d rather fuel a fantasy than deal with this alone _

 

“I shouldn’t go; he won’t want me there, May-- it’s been too long,” Peter doubts himself, May’s hand adjusting his tie hanging too loosely around his collar. His hands go up to readjust it, but she takes them in hers, forcing Peter to look her in the eyes. 

 

“Showing up, being there, is better than not trying at all,” she offers advice that sounds more like a command. Peter holds his tongue, remembering how well that worked the last time he tried with you. Part of him knows May is right, but a bigger part is filled with fear. Fear that he wasn’t enough for you and showing up to your father’s funeral after months of isolation from each other will only reinforce that fact. All Peter wants is to be enough for you, not asking for any more than simply being  _ enough. _

 

Peter nods, his chin resting in the palms of her hands as she slides them up to ruffle his hair a bit, then quickly fixing the curls that were out of place. He stands up, shoulders deflated as if he knows he’s fighting a losing battle with you, but the feelings are still there. His feelings never lessened in intensity, but his mind adapted to your absence and learned how to cope with the missing pieces of what felt like a previous life. A version of Peter Parker that ceased to exist after your goodbye, or lack thereof. 

 

Before he leaves out the door, May tugs on his arm to draw back his attention. 

 

“Hey, Peter?” 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If he needs a place…”

 

Peter’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, breath caught in his throat: he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. He hadn’t thought about the possibility that you’d even look at him again, you had no reason to. But he couldn’t predict anything you’d do anymore. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay--” Peter’s quick to respond so his thoughts don’t linger on any hopeful wishes. He’s just going to show up, that’s all he can think about doing, anything else feels far-fetched. 

 

~~~

Your eyes are drained: rimmed in bloodshot-red, underlined in dark crescents, dried out from tears. You used to wish he would drink himself to death on the nights it got really bad, but when it actually happened, it’s nothing like you wanted it to be. Only feels lonely, and now that you had pushed away Peter, there’s nobody left but yourself and “family friends” that won’t last more than a day or so, week at most. There’s nowhere to go, nobody’s arms to run into. 

 

Walking at the front of the crowd, mostly everyone leaves just enough space between you so that it feels like there’s an imaginary bubble surrounding you, marking you as changed. Black shoes crumple dead grass underfoot, watching out to not trip over packed together gravestones, efficiently spaced to cram as many bodies into one cemetery as possible. Your stomach lurches at the thought, that if you never show up to his grave, nobody will. This sets off another round of tears, your cheeks so numb you wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the wind stinging against the drops and scattering them across your cheekbones. You wipe them away with a black sleeve, sick of crying tears you weren’t sure who were for. 

 

Not listening to the burial ceremony, you instead focus on a fake flower at your feet, blown away with the wind from a gravestone of someone whose memory still lives on. Would you bring flowers to his grave after today? Would you show up? Too many questions, not enough energy to even begin to answer when you wouldn’t even have a place to stay by the end of the month. Your dad left you nothing but scars and mistakes you never should have made, sacrifices made purely for his benefit and comfort at the dispense of yours. 

 

_ But the less time that I spend with you, the less you need to heal.  _

 

Peter can’t tear his eyes off you, but not once do you even try to lift your head. It’s beyond frustrating, he wills with every thought that he tries to send to you to just look up, look up at him and he can take some of the pain. You don’t have to do it alone. But Peter stands still and off to the side, thinking too much without taking action. All he can think about is the last time, even if circumstances are different--he just doesn’t know what you want. 

 

As the last words are spoken, you pick up the flower, and toss it down, landing on top the casket. Your shoulders shake, indicating another burst of sobs but you fight it as best as you can. You feel arms wrap around your shoulders, a head leaning against your neck, a soft kiss on your chin. Hannah, the girl you’d been dating to keep your dad satisfied, tries to transfer some of the happiness in her to you, but it just doesn’t work. It’s nice to not feel completely alone, so you lean your forehead against hers, taking whatever affection anyone’s willing to offer. 

 

Peter’s eyes lock on her and you, feeling his heart pound harder and chest rise and fall faster and faster. It’s real, it’s really real with her, has been for months and this only the final proof. Proof you don’t need him, you’ve got someone and his presence makes no difference. Peter feels an urge to leave, to just run and flee the scene, not like you’d notice anyway. Without a second look, he takes off in the opposite direction, yanking off the too-tight tie around his neck and undoing the top buttons, like he really thought you’d care how he looked, how he showed up for you. 

 

Just as you finally find the strength to lift your chin, you catch Peter’s figure turn around and leave abruptly. It doesn’t feel real, you never thought he’d show, but he’s leaving now anyway, because… You push off of Hannah, murmuring an excuse as you chase after Peter, no reason and nothing clear that you can think of to say. You catch him on the steps of the church, grabbing onto his upper arm as he tenses up at your touch. It hurts, knowing how he used to melt into your fingertips but now it puts him on the edge. 

 

It’s like a movie scene, where he turns around just as you start to regret your actions, but it’s too late and your left tongue-tied, scrambling for words, any words at all. But a quiet falls over both of you, Peter’s jaw dropped and gaping at you, your lips tightly sealed. 

 

_ Stuck on the bridge between us _

 

You drop your eyes, like it’s a rare, delicate thing to get to look into Peter’s eyes now. A flash of red peeks out from his unbuttoned shirt, and without thinking, your fingers pull down on the shirt, the next couple buttons popping open from your touch. A black logo in the shape of a spider centers around the middle of his chest, your jaw finally falling open, but it’s Peter’s turn to seal his lips. 

 

“Peter… You--”

 

“What? So? Yeah, I’m Spider-man. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? It’s not something you tell somebody that doesn’t want you to talk, text, call, or even look at them,” Peter hisses, cutting you off before you can get out more than two words. You cringe at the words you had spoken that he throws back in your face. Dropping your hand from his chest, you force yourself to make eye contact again. 

 

“I was going to tell you that night, but I kinda freaked and wanted to see how you’d react to my letter first. So I was going to tell you the next time we were really together like that, but there was no next time,” Peter continues without waiting for a response. You’re still frozen in the space, no words coming to mind. 

 

_ Gray areas and expectations _

 

“So, no. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act surprised, or mad that I didn’t tell you, or whatever, because.. because you--” Peter halts, trying to communicate between sniffles. You can’t take it anymore, can’t listen to him say these things. You throw your arms over his shoulders just as he collapses into your chest. 

 

“I’m  _ sorry. _ ”

 

Your lips part, wanting to explain to him all the reasons why, to prove it wasn’t something you wanted to do and that the words that clearly stuck with him were blatant lies. But instead, you let yourself feel how warm he is in your arms, how he completes a part of you that you didn’t know how much you needed. How, Peter Parker, feels enough for you. 

 

_ I wanna hold hands with you, I wanna be close to you _

 

Peter slowly raises his chin, a watery sheen clouding over his eyes as he tries to blink it away, but you rub the pads of your thumbs over the corners of his eyes, for him. He lets out a single shaky breath just as you breathe it in, feeling him go straight to your lungs. You want more, need more. Your hands clench around his collar as your lips collide, no air left to breathe but you still feel at ease with him. Nothing has ever felt so damn right. Peter pulls apart, balancing his head on top of your shoulder, crammed right in the crook in your neck. It wouldn’t matter anymore if anybody told you this was wrong, if your dad rose from his grave and cracked a bottle over your head, because you know now for yourself that this thing is between you and Peter, and nobody else. If it involves only the two of you, then why would what anybody else has to say matter?

 

If this is sick, if this is perverted, if this wrong, then what would make it right? Pushing the one person you love away? It’s like you and Peter share the same thought, and you don’t even need to speak it into existence to accept it. It’s not your job to change who you are, it’s anybody who looks away in disgust job to change. 

 

“Peter…”

 

“Mhmm?”

 

You reach into your pocket, breathing out deeply as you show him the taped together piece of paper. The letter you picked off the floor that night and mended it back together, the letter you read countless times every night since that night. 

 

“Do you still mean what you wrote?”

 

A blushy smile spreads over his lips, because of course he meant it then and he means it now. The words he rewrote over and over until they were perfect in his mind: 

 

_ I wanna sleep next to you, but that’s all I want to do right now _

 

_ And I wanna come home to you, but home is just a place full of my safest sounds _

 

_ So come over now, and _

 

_ talk me down…  _

 

“It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

 


	5. tell me what it is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by "real" by years and years

_ Broke my bones, playing games with you. _

 

You were aware of the unwritten rules between you and Peter, and they made sense. In a way, but not a good way. 

 

Don’t talk more than acquaintances would in school. 

Try not to acknowledge/smile/wink at each other when passing in the halls. 

Stay in your own circle. 

 

They went on and on, and the list only lengthened the closer you became. But, this day felt different--desirable, irresistible--capable of mending the rules for maybe twenty minutes of lunch. Was that too much for a boy to ask? You tell yourself that it’s not too much, ignoring the reasons the rules exist in the first place. 

 

Peter’s wedged between Ned and Michelle, lips falling into an open “O” mid-laughter in horror as he locks eyes with you fast approaching. He whips his head in a circle, hoping that you have your eyes set on anybody else, but there’s nobody that would fit a better explanation. Of course, because it’s him, always been him. There’s no room for anyone else in your head because Peter claimed that spot a long time ago. 

 

Somehow reading the situation crystal-clear, Michelle scoots over, leaving a gaping space between her and Peter for you to slide into. Peter’s shaking his head at her, but you sit anyway, putting on a strong facade as you smile through gritted teeth at him beside you. You squeeze your hands into fists in your lap and force your breaths to try and come out in a normal pattern, in then out, and over and over again. 

 

“Hey, I hope it’s okay that I’m--”

 

“Yeah, sorry, I just realized I have a thing, so…” Peter rushes to cut you off, swinging one leg out from under the table to leave, just as you arrived. He tries to keep a cool and collected expression while you’re busy trying to hide the defeat written in downturned lips and rapidly blinking eyes. Even at this moment, in his obvious avoidance of you, you can’t help but memorize the sharp lines in his jaw that could cut glass, or how his hair matches the color of his eyes with ease. You try to remember that he is yours, just not here, but all the faking feels more like forgetting. 

 

“Peter, what thing? It’s lunch,” Ned cuts in. Peter’s jaw clenches as his eyes fall to the floor; you can almost hear his heart beat faster if you listen closely. 

 

“Just a thing, okay!”

 

More silence, awkward glances between Ned and Michelle, but not you and Peter. It feels too late for that. You know what you have to do, and it fucking hurts. 

 

“No, it’s fine. You’re the one that doesn’t want me here, so I’ll be the one that leaves,” you conclude, brushing shoulders with him as you stand. Peter flinches at your touch, jerking away and adding more distance than before. It makes you want to stretch out your arms and shake him furiously, to scream at him to stop hiding when there’s nothing to be afraid of. But that’s a lie, there are things to be afraid of and when you came out every fear floated to the surface and demanded to be dealt with all at once. It’s overwhelming and makes it seem easier to go on pretending forever.

 

Peter slinks back into his seat, lowering his chin almost to the table while you hover over the three of them, waiting. After a few more painful seconds of silence, you realize you’re waiting for a response stuck in the back of his throat that he’s not going to let out. As you walk away, the list of rules swarms in your head, like they’re mocking you, reminding you why they exist. 

 

So those situations don’t occur.

 

_ I talk to you but it don’t work; I touch you but it starts to hurt. _

 

***

 

He was always here, usually a couple minutes late, because it’s Peter, and there’s always something. But never this late, you’ve never had to wait thirty minutes--which would be worrying enough on its own, but paired with earlier today it’s heart-wrenching. The sun’s already setting, and the blending of deep pink and cream orange in the sky above seems more like a warning of its fleeting beauty than another pretty Instagram post. You’re leaning on the edge of the park bench you practically claimed together with him, uncomfortable with every passing second that he’s still not with you as the seat grows colder instead of warmer underneath your legs. 

 

How much longer do you wait? How much time do you give Peter? 

 

When is the right time to just call it quits?

 

And, what if this is his way of telling you he already called it without you?

 

“Hey.”

 

Peter’s hand on the space between your shoulderblades makes you flinch, and he pulls back, walking in a circle to the front to sit beside you. He leaves a space, a zone almost daring you to enter. You say nothing in return, either as a way to show him you’re not something he can just brush off nonchalantly or because no words can bring justice to your feelings. 

 

“I’m sorry…” he finally fills in the cracks, a last attempt to hold the splitting seams together before they fall apart. 

 

“Okay.”

 

You feel him inch closer, resting his pinky against your fingertips. It’s not right for him to do this to you--pulling you in with the tides only to push you back to shore when he’s not feeling it. You don’t want to be a pitstop; you want to be his destination. 

 

“Talk to me, please, just say something that’ll make me feel less guilty,” Peter nudges you again, hoping you’ll show him any sign of recognition. You’re tired of giving things away for him to take and never give back. 

 

“It’s not my fault you feel guilty, or that this is the only place you’ll talk to me, or that you’re afraid,” you snap back, unleashing the things you held in secret to spare him the pain of owning up to. You hear him suck in a breath while his fingers start to shake next to yours. 

 

“I know it’s not your fault, trust me. There’s just--I don’t know. All these things spinning in my head that I can’t pin down because every time I almost do, they move out of my reach. And if I could just grab onto at least one of them, and fix it, I wouldn’t feel so helpless,” Peter explains, the best way he can. You don’t want to, but your heart softens, especially as you finally look up and see the frustration hardening his features. 

 

“That’s not the way it works. You can’t just fix everything and it’ll all be okay; some things break, but you still have to pick up the pieces,” you respond, squeezing his hand almost on instinct. 

 

“Are we broken?”

 

You almost immediately say no, but you don’t know yet if that’s the truth or a lie. Instead of talking, you shift your body towards him and catch his gaze. Peter’s hair is disheveled, hanging in chunks around his eyes rimmed in bloodshot red. If this isn’t what broken looks like, then you don’t know what is. 

 

_ How much do you want it too? What are you prepared to do? _

 

It’s one of those moments that talking makes worse. Peter seems to be aware of this too, signaling his understanding through pushing loose pieces of your hair behind your ear. If you’re broken, you can’t break any more than you already have, so why hold back?

 

You lean into him, fingers still unraveling your hair, hoping this once he’ll meet you in the middle and you can pretend that love is always 50/50. He pauses, the blatant hesitation fills you with the beginnings of regret until his lips collide with yours and clear out the fear. Thoughts grow fuzzy like a camera lens out of focus but you’re thankful for it. Sometimes it’s easier to just let yourself feel without labeling the emotion. 

 

Peter’s teeth drag against your bottom lip making the kiss messier, pulling your chest down into his so his shoulders hit the back of the bench. The trees above hide you in the shadows they cast and you can’t read his face but your fingertips trace over his chin and up along the sides of his jaw. The feeling is so intense every inhale and quick exhale or rise of his chest is so alive it’s almost unreal. It could become so much more than this and that's terrifying and exciting at the same time. 

 

_ I think I’m gonna make it worse _

 

Your hand slides around to the back of his neck, his skin flushing with a sudden cold that makes you pull away. You begin to ask if he’s okay until you realize his whole body is trembling, and his breaths are coming out shorter than the last. 

 

“Peter?”

 

It feels helpless, like all you can do is watch, because you never talked about what to do in these situations. Some people need to be alone and others crave comfort, and no move felt more right than the other. 

 

If you could read minds, you’d stumble away at the messy thoughts swarming in Peter’s head. Fears about the uncertainty with you and what this was not only to him, but you as well. Fears of how much to tell and how much to keep to himself. Fears of you not being able to handle his other identity. Fears that he’d have to hide behind a mask for the rest of his life.

 

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, that way he can pretend this isn’t happening, that you’re not really here and his imagination conjured you up from his loneliness. But, your desire to let him feel safer collides with this unknown wish of Peter’s, and you carefully place a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Peter, I--”

 

“Don’t touch me.”

 

You snap your hand away and rub your palms against your thighs, unsure what move to make and if it’s the wrong one, will it be the last?

 

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, voice shaky but not as much as Peter’s. 

 

“Leave,” he whispers, still refusing to open his eyes. 

 

“Okay, are you sure? I can just sit here with you; I don’t have to say anything, but you won’t have to be alone,” you struggle to compromise, rooted in fears of leaving him like this. That’s all you would do, just be here, in case he changes his mind or does something drastic. 

 

“If you won’t go, then I will,” Peter rushes to speak, planting his feet on the ground and bolting down the path before you can say ‘stop.’ You want to chase after him and tell him he doesn’t have to deal with this alone, but gravity glues your feet to the ground and you can’t pick them up. Now it’s feeling like everything is burned down to its core and nothing you do will help. 

 

***

 

Restless, tossing and turning. No amount of soft blankets and cushioned pillows could bring comfort at this point. It’s not healthy for your heart to beat this fast for this long; it’s not healthy to be in this deep with Peter. You trace a string of tangled memories to the source, and wonder if you could go back and take away the first time you spoke to him, would you? You try and tune out the impossibilities with music, but it feels like every lyric is specifically addressed to you and only you. 

 

_ If I had been enough for you, would I be better, would I be good? _

 

A creak from your bedroom window snaps you out of the haze, heart beating faster than before if that’s even possible. All you can do is watch as it slides up and a figure climbs through, a shape that looks familiar. Your eyes lock on their dominant hand, clutching what looks like a piece of fabric, right before they toss it close to your reach. It lands a few inches from your fingers, and you hesitate before picking it up. 

 

A mask? 

 

Your eyes squint in the dark, fingers toying with the stretchy, red fabric. The only things close to openings are two white shapes for the eyes. It all washes over you, feeling like a dream: this is Spider-man’s mask, and he’s in your room. It has to be a dream, only you don’t recall falling asleep. 

 

Before you know what your plan is, your legs meet the floor and you’re walking towards him, one step at a time. Just as you’re a few feet away, he collapses into your chest, and you’re enveloped in the smell of his hair, the rhythm in which his body trembles, and the sticky tears dampening the sleeve of your shirt. 

 

It’s him, it’s Peter, and it all makes sense. 

 

“I can’t keep these secrets anymore,” he cries, muffled by choking breaths and your chest. Your arms tighten around his back, pressing him even closer. You hug him the way you should’ve in the cafeteria, the way you should’ve on that park bench. No--the way you should’ve every day since it started. 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

Four words from you release him from suffering, catharsis. That’s all he really needed, was for one person to tell him that it’s okay, and you would’ve done that a long time ago if only you knew. A faint thrum of music still playing from your phone awakens your senses, like you’re hearing the words for the first time. You heard them before and thought you knew what they meant, dreaded them because it seemed like an ending rather than a beginning. 

 

_ Love, I will let you go. _

 

There’s more than one way to let someone go. You’re not letting him walk away from you. You’re letting Peter walk away from dangling on the edge, holding on to nothing but secrets. 

 

He needs you to pull him on to solid ground. 

 

“You don’t have to, Peter,” you repeat, and you’ll say it again and again until he knows it’s true. 


End file.
